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The pride of the monk Wangohan would not easily let him
admit defeat. Because of this, the monk chose
to forge ahead with an unfamiliar web framework despite master Suku’s warnings to the contrary.

“Now your shame will be twice as great,” taunted the monk
Landhwa. “Once for the ruin that will befall you,
and once again because the master herself advised against
your course.”

Wangohan thus returned to his cubicle thoroughly disheartened.
There he found affixed to his monitor a small yellow note, unsigned
and in an unfamiliar hand, advising him to have his code reviewed
by the nun Zjing before resuming his efforts.

“A poor counsel is this,” thought Wangohan, “for I require
courage, and Zjing cannot stand upon a stepstool lest her
fear of heights overcome her.” Yet the note did not seem to
be of Landhwa’s doing, and since Wangohan knew of none other
that bore him malice, he emailed his predicament to the
telecommuting nun.

“Your framework is not right,” said Zjing. “Or else,
your code is not right.”

This embarrassed and angered the monk. “How can you be so
certain?” he demanded.

“I will tell you,” said the nun.

Zjing began the story of how she had been born in a
distant province, the second youngest of six dutiful
daughters. Her father, she said, was a lowly abacus-maker,
poor but shrewd and calculating; her mother had a stall in
the marketplace where she sold random numbers. In vivid
detail Zjing described her earliest days in school, right
down to the smooth texture of the well worn teak floors and
the acrid yet not unpleasant scent of the stray black dog
that followed her home in the rain one day.

“Enough!” shouted the exasperated Wangohan when a full hour
had passed, for the nun’s narrative showed no sign of drawing
to a close. “That is no way to answer a simple question!”